


Five Times Hiccup Was Called into the Great Hall for a Punishment, and One Time He Wasn't

by sarahenany



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Corporal Punishment, Cuddling & Snuggling, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 13:49:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14403453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahenany/pseuds/sarahenany
Summary: If you don't remember (for 'remember', read: 'squee uncontrollably at') this moment, don't bother with this fic:In "We Are Family Pt. 1", Hiccup is called into the Great Hall, where Stoick gives him Bork's life's work. Before that, though, Stoick says "Hold out your hands," and Hiccuphides them behind his back.That's a conditioned response to protect his wrists/hands from being hit. Just how used to being hit on the hands is he that he hides them behind his backinstinctively?!This is how.





	Five Times Hiccup Was Called into the Great Hall for a Punishment, and One Time He Wasn't

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. A thousand thanks to Thursday26, who edited this from a beast into something that makes sense time-and action-wise. Beta above and beyond.  
> 2\. This fudges the HTTYD1 timeline a smidgin in that Stoick is still on Berk in the time where he was canonically on a ship somewhere on a fruitless search for the nest. Artistic license. Move along, nothing to see here.

  1. **Age 7**



“The boy caused the entire village three days of work! He’s not a babe anymore. You cannae let him get away with it, Stoick! You have to punish him.”

The Great Hall is darkened although it’s midday, only a shaft of watery grey filtering in through the skylight. Beneath the shaft, the handful of men who make up the core council sit around the table, sending dust motes swirling upwards in the musty, still air with their agitated gesturing. Stoick detests the Viking tradition that the oldest man in the village be given a place on the village council. Before, it was Old Miles, who didn’t really weigh in one way or the other, and Stoick wasn’t opposed to his presence. But now Miles is dead, and the next oldest is Mildew, who has a sadistic streak and a grudge against, Stoick thinks, young people in general.

“I’ve been saying that for years,” Spitelout says smoothly, in measured tones that make Stoick want to punch him. He glares at Jorgenson. _How this man could be Valka’s brother_ …

“Oh, give it a rest, both of ye. The child meant well.” Stoick is grateful for Gobber’s solid presence: he sounds nonchalant, but Stoick knows his old friend is anything but. “If his idea had worked,” Gobber goes on mildly, “it would have saved the village _months_ of work.”

“You keeping him in the forge to ‘prentice, Gobber,” Mildew hisses, “or to practice his _ideas?”_

“If it weren’t for ideas, you’d still be plowing with your hands, Mildew,” snaps Gobber. Stoick knows that Gobber loves the boy like his own. But the murmurs around the table are getting louder, more mutinous. The balance is tipping.

“There’s a difference between good sense and hair-brained schemes!” yells someone.

“All good inventions were hair-brained schemes when first invented,” Gobber retorts.

“The village smithy is not a playground,” Spitelout adds, and the council mutters agreement.

“I’ve never believed in punishing honest mistakes,” insists Stoick firmly. “There was no malice in it. To err is human.”

“Once! Twice! But the boy’s a menace!” Anders slams his fists onto the table. A cacophony breaks loose as all the men start talking at once. “He broke my fence!” shouts someone. “He let loose my sheep!” someone else says. “He let loose _Sven’s_ sheep!” bellows a third, booming across all the others clamoring to make themselves heard.

Stoick keeps his expression impassive amid the pandemonium, but his heart sinks. What he’s hearing is not a call to correct a child’s behavior but a desire to vent their resentment, to punish, to hurt. “Look at you! Grown men calling for vengeance on a child!" Gobber bursts out. Bless him, he must be feeling the same. “He didn't mean it. Accidents _do_ happen.” Pausing, Gobber turns his piercing gaze pointedly on the man who was yelling the loudest. “Have you forgotten, Rustenburst, how you caused your field to lie fallow for a season for want of fertilizer? I didn’t see you howling for blood then. Or is it one rule for yerself and one for others?”

“But that’s the point. He is the chief’s son,” Spitelout interjects reasonably. “If he is allowed to harm others without consequences, it would imply that the chief can harm others with impunity because he is the chief. The example must be set.”

The murmurs around the table make Stoick’s heart sink. There’s too much weight to those who agree. Snatches of ‘no special treatment’, ‘other boys have been punished for less’, ‘is it right to let him get away with murder’, and repeatedly, ‘…the chief's son?’

Stoick inhales deeply. He looks over the assembly. Gobber must see something in Stoick’s face, for his blue eyes widen in alarm. Gobber opens his mouth to speak. Stoick opens his mouth too, and Spitelout beats them both to it, cutting through the babble of the others’ voices. “If you're too soft to do it, Stoick, I'll be happy to whip your boy into shape.” Spitelout’s trying for businesslike, keeping his expression neutral, but there’s an eager light in his eye that makes Stoick cringe.

Stoick stands and turns his gaze on Spitelout. The men shift nervously, some looking down at the table or fumbling with their hands. “Lest ye forget, brother-in-law, I am still the chief.” It takes him a moment to swallow it. He’s avoided laying a hand on his boy thus far. For Valka. But today… today his luck has run out. Heavily, he says, “I'll do what needs to be done. Myself.”

“Stoick,” Gobber whispers.

Stoick looks toward Gobber, but finds he can’t meet his friend’s eyes. He can’t look and stand firm. When he shifts his gaze back to the men, Spitelout has stood up as well. “Do it here, in front of the council. No coddling your boy at home.”

Stoick clears his throat. “Send for him,” he commands. He can’t hide the hitch in his voice.

* * *

The door to the Great Hall swings open. The slice of daylight looks dizzyingly high, the silhouette of the seven-year-old in it impossibly small. Stoick stands at the forefront of the council, the other men standing behind him; he can hear murmurs and shuffling feet.  “Come in, Hiccup,” Stoick says kindly. Then he recalls what Hiccup’s here for, and his stomach turns with guilt, the kindness in his voice feeling like a lie.

The child’s footfalls echo in the vast empty space as he comes up to face the assembly. He has to crane his neck to face them, and Stoick remembers his own childhood, when adults seemed like giants. Menacing giants, he thinks unhappily.

“Hiccup,” Stoick intones, wanting to get it over with, “do you know why you’re here?” He doesn’t know if whoever was sent to get the child has told him.

Little Hiccup’s eyes, scared and wide, seek out Gobber’s; then fear flares in his gaze and he looks down at the flagstones, shying away from the assembled men, shrinking into himself. Stoick can _feel_ the shiver go through his child. Then Hiccup lifts his head and tries for a smile. “I’m uh… g-guessing this isn’t a b-birthday party, huh?”

The men behind Stoick murmur. There’s a huff of breath from Gobber that might be a laugh. Stoick can swear he can hear the affection in it. Then there are heavy footsteps behind him, accompanied by a furious shout. “Listen here, you disrespectful little…!”

Stoick whirls to see Spitelout striding forward, hands clenched into fists. He steps in his way smoothly, feeling his body settle into ice. Spitelout keeps moving, looking so intently at Hiccup that he doesn’t notice Stoick until he literally runs into him, colliding and stumbling awkwardly. He rights himself and straightens under Stoick’s glare. “Were you thinking of striking my son without permission, brother-in-law?”

Spitelout’s eyes widen. He looks from Hiccup to Stoick, and his lips tighten. Then he glares and backs down. The interruption has settled Stoick’s resolve, and he turns to face his child. “Hiccup, you’re a Viking now, old enough to face the consequences for your actions. You’re to be punished for your actions against the village.”

“Against the _village?!”_ little Hiccup bursts out indignantly. “Dad!”

Stoick ignores the outburst. “You will address me as Chief until this council is no longer in session.” His heart has been replaced by a stone, and he is numb, and this is easy, if he doesn't think about what he has to do. He turns back to the assembled men. “That goes for you too.”

“Yes, Chief.” Gobber’s voice is bitter, but Stoick realizes what he’s doing: setting an example for the child, and the men as well. More than anything, he wants to take Gobber and Hiccup and walk out of the Great Hall and not look back. And then what? Leave a power vacuum? Let the village be led by Spitelout? Let them fall dead by the dozens in the next dragon raid?

“You’re to get a strapping for losing Silent Sven’s sheep and depriving the village of a food source,” Stoick intones. “Hold out your hands.”

Hiccup blanches. He doesn’t flinch, but his hands clench into fists, his elbows pulling in to his sides, his neck - already craned to look up at the men - tensing. Stoick’s heart goes out to him. “You'll get nine,” he adds. Stoick knows it's easier to bear when you know how many you're getting.

“Nine?!” Spitelout’s voice behind him is high-pitched and incredulous. “I knew you were soft on the boy, Stoick, but—”

“ENOUGH!” roars Stoick, snapping around to face them. The men take a step back in alarm. Out of the corner of his eye, Stoick can see even Hiccup stumble backwards in startlement. “I believe,” he says, voice dropping into a dangerous register, “for the duration of this session, I instructed you to address me as ‘Chief.’” Stoick takes a breath, looking around at every council member with a deadly glare. “Was that not clear?”

“Yes, Chief.” Spitelout holds up his hands and nods. The other council members bob their heads in assent.

Stoick takes a breath and looks at Gobber, who’s standing a little way apart. “Give me your strap, Gobber.”

Piercing blue eyes meet Stoick’s, betrayed. “Chief…” Gobber won’t say no, won’t challenge Stoick’s authority, but he shakes his head almost imperceptibly. The plea is evident in Gobber’s eyes. _Don’t make me be a part of this._ And Stoick knows how Gobber feels, how wrong it seems for Hiccup’s mentor to be complicit in this. But Stoick meets Gobber’s gaze, willing him to understand: Stoick’s armbands and belt are far heavier than Gobber’s. They’re made of thick, ancient leather weighted down with metal studs, and will do far worse damage. Stoick isn’t sure Gobber understands. His old friend is looking away from him now, meeting his son’s eyes instead.

“If you would, Gobber.” Stoick doesn’t quite say please, but it’s there in his voice, and Gobber drops his eyes, defeated. He unwinds one of the strips and hands it to Stoick, then folds his arms and turns his back on Stoick. Turns his back on all of them.

Stoick stares at his best friend’s disapproving back for a moment, then starts to turn to face Hiccup. Spitelout eyes the strap, unimpressed. “You're going to use that? Seems a little light. I know he's an undersized runt and all, but I thought he could take a man's punishment.”

“He’s seven years old, Spitelout.” Stoick can’t quite keep the shock from his voice. “This is to punish him, not cripple him.” His son’s green eyes are wide and scared. It was easy to speak of penalties to be paid when he wasn’t holding a length of leather in his hand, preparing to beat his son with it. Gods, what is he doing?

“But…”

“Quiet. I'll give him his punishment and we'll hear no more of this. Hiccup, hold out your hands.”

Holding his head high, Hiccup makes to obey. For a moment, he hesitates. Then he sets his jaw and extends his thin arms, palms up. Stoick flinches. Odin help him. Hiccup's hands are like Valka's.

Stoick swings the strap experimentally through the air. Hiccup shrinks away. The sight of his son cringing in fear – fear of him – makes Stoick’s heart hurt, but he keeps it inside, standing firm. He’s never done this before, but he knows from what he’s heard that you must strike lightly at first, to warm the skin up, to avoid doing damage.

He raises the strap and brings it down, feeling the impact in his own arm as it’s stopped by Hiccup’s bare wrists. A loud _crack_ reverberates through the hall. Hiccup jerks at the blow, but remains silent.

From behind Stoick, Gobber lets out a soft little sound. Hiccup curls in on himself, tensing. Stoick can’t breathe. The skin of the boy’s thin wrists is reddening before Stoick’s eyes, but Hiccup keeps his arms out. Steeling himself against the bitter surge in his chest, Stoick raises the strap again, careful not to use his full strength. Too much too soon can injure, and he’ll gladly strangle the council members one by one before he does harm to a child.

Even the next slow, measured swing cracks explosively against Hiccup’s skinny arms. This time, the boy gasps, breathing hard against the pain. Stoick’s own chest aches in sympathy. He breathes deeply in tandem with Hiccup, staring at his arms, unable to meet his eyes, for if he does, nothing will stop Stoick from falling to his knees and taking his only child in his arms. He steels himself and strikes again.

The sound is louder than before, and it makes Gobber grunt. This time, Hiccup suppresses a groan, teeth gritted and face twisted in a grimace as he tenses, wincing and trying to hide it. He’s trying to hard to be brave, and Stoick fights to get his own breathing under control, to choke back the thundering of his hammering heart.

“Are you punishing him or playing pat-a-cake, Chief?” his brother-in-law’s disgruntled voice comes from behind him. He ignores it, or he might punch the man in the face. The last thing he can allow himself to do now is lose control.

Stoick swings the strap again. The leather cracks against Hiccup’s arms and this time it draws a cry. At Stoick’s shoulder, Gobber inhales sharply through clenched teeth, as though he’s the one who’s been struck. Stoick can just glimpse him out of the corner of his eye. He’s turned to face Hiccup, and is watching, face set, his features hidden in deep shadow.

Suddenly, Stoick is flooded with memories of holding Hiccup close, of holding his wife in his arms, soft and warm and loving, her head resting in the tender place between his neck and shoulder. Stoick’s arm wrapped around Valka, their little baby nestled warmly into Stoick’s hand, so tiny he fitted almost completely into it, his baby cheek pressed against Stoick’s fingers. The little one clasping Stoick’s thumb in its tiny hand.

The hand he’s beating with a leather strap.

Stoick has been naive to think he could be both father and chief simultaneously. After all, Stoick’s father did it. And his father before him. It's the natural order of things. Or so he thought. Right now, he's torn between being a chief, the chief he knows he must be, and the father he can’t help being. The father who loves his son, even when he makes mistakes, who would do anything to protect him. Who would do anything to spare him, who’s dying inside at the sight of Hiccup writhing in pain.

Steeling himself, Stoick raises the strap and brings it down. The sooner he can get this distasteful task over, the better. This time it’s marginally harder, and Hiccup gasps loudly. His gaze darts up to Stoick’s face, eyes wide with shock and betrayal, then he bows his head again, staring straight down. Irrationally unhappy that his son won’t meet his eyes, Stoick swings again.

It’s too soon after the last one. The child doubles over and lets out a cry. The sound wrenches at Stoick’s gut. Behind Stoick, Gobber lets out a grunt, hastily cut off.

Stoick’s thoughts are full of his wife’s embrace, of soft baby hands. He feels like a traitor, like a monster. He’s betraying his wife now that she isn’t here to see it, betraying the gods who gifted this child to him, betraying the purpose of fatherhood: to protect, to cherish. Betraying his own self: he swore not to be a vindictive chief, not to rule by punishment. He’s mostly kept that promise. But he hasn’t been able to keep from breaking it with his own son.

Hiccup's panting, trying to control the pain. It's making Stoick's own breathing stutter. He keeps reminding himself to be firm. “Three more,” he says. He’s not sure if he’s reassuring Hiccup or himself.

When the strap cracks against Hiccup’s red, swollen wrists a seventh time, Hiccup doubles over entirely, tucking his arms protectively against his stomach, grunting loudly and drawing in long, gasping breaths, and Stoick starts to feel dizzy before he realizes that he's stopped breathing. He waits for Hiccup to straighten up and hold his arms back out. Hiccup does, but his fear and pain are harder to suppress now. Tears are spilling down his cheeks. His face is a rictus, and he’s almost losing the battle for self-control.

The eighth stroke lands and Hiccup’s precarious control shatters. He lets out a grunting wail, pushed beyond his limits, and writhes, bending double again. His son’s cry is a knife in Stoick’s chest, and for a moment it’s all he can do to keep himself from scooping the boy into his arms and soothing his pain and drying his tears, to keep from holding him and comforting him and promising never, ever to hurt him again. But, when he looks at the council, they are all waiting for their chief to finish punishing the boy. He draws in a deep breath, concentrating on the leather in his hand and reminding himself not to show weakness. The assembled men’s eyes are all on him. He consciously squares his shoulders and plants his feet a little further apart.

When Hiccup finally straightens up, his face is blotchy and streaked with tears, although he’s managed to choke back his cries. “Look at him.” Spitelout just can't resist shoving his oar in. “Crying like a baby at eight. My boy could take twenty without making a sound.”

Gobber _growls._ “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut up.”

“All I said is that _my_ boy can take a man's punishment. How does it look for the chief’s son to be getting special treatment?”

Stoick whips his head round to face him. “I don't interfere in the way you raise your son, Spitelout. How a Viking raises his son is _his business._ Unless you think differently.”

There must be something in his face, because Spitelout looks away. Stoick meets the eyes of the assembled clan patriarchs in turn, daring anyone else to find fault with his punishment. He finds no challenge. Only Gobber has his head half-turned away, eyes squeezed so tight shut that every wrinkle in his face is showing. Stoick has never thought of Gobber as old before.

And little Hiccup, bless him, dashes away his tears, squares his shoulders, and glares defiantly, setting his teeth and holding his wrists out once more.

Like a challenge.

As Stoick delivers the final stroke, Hiccup gasps and pants his way through the pain. Stoick swallows, concentrating very hard on keeping his breathing even. On being strong. He lets the hand holding the strap fall to his side. He'd throw it down, but that would show weakness. He'd hand it back to Gobber, but he can't face Gobber, not now. So he stands there with his chin out, looking at his little boy.

Stoick's gut twists as he sees Hiccup clutch first one wrist, then the other, behind his back. He doesn't want the assembled men to see that he's hurting. Stoick wants to hold those wrists himself. To soothe them and kiss them as he kissed his little baby’s hands, not all that long ago.

But then Hiccup raises his head and meets the council's eyes, much as Stoick did moments ago. His eyes well up with tears, but he blinks them away, and keeps glaring up at the assembled men, all taller and stronger than he.

Stoick’s breath stutters. In those seven-year-old eyes, blazing with defiance, he can see the heart of a chief—and a fire that burns like a dragon’s.

“Get along wi'ye,” he says gruffly. It’s all he can get out.

Chin up, Hiccup turns and stalks out. His pace is slow and measured, adult, all the way to the door. In the sliver of light that cuts through the dimness as the door swings shut, Stoick can see Hiccup start to run.

The silence that reigns after the boy is gone is profound and oppressive. Feelings have been shown that ought by rights to remain private. Someone clears his throat. There’s a general fidgeting and shuffling of feet. It’s not these men’s place to interfere in how the chief disciplines his son, and they know it. And Hiccup – bless him – has done Stoick proud. He faced them all like a man. Like a Viking.

“If everyone is quite finished doing their duties, I have a forge to run.”

Stoick swivels to his best friend. But Gobber doesn't meet Stoick's eyes as he stumps off.

“I trust the council is satisfied,” Stoick intones as Gobber pulls the door open to go, daring anyone to contradict him.

The only man with the gumption to meet Stoick’s eyes is his brother-in-law. The rest of the Vikings look at his face while carefully avoiding his eyes. Oh, yes, they know they’ve crossed the line by interfering. But he can see in how they hesitantly look from him to Mildew to Spitelout that they will very likely interfere again.

* * *

 

  1. **Age 10**



Hiccup stumbles down the stairs. There always seem to be so _many_ of them after a punishment. He knows the pain will stop soon, but that strap _hurts._ It’s already receding. He just needs to get to the forge. He just needs to get to the forge without meeting anyone, that’s all he asks—

The moment Hiccup's stumbled down the last step, he's violently rammed from the side, ending up sprawled on his side in the mud. Snotlout is standing over him, feet planted on either side of him. He’s smiling, although it looks more like a grimace.

"Hey, cuz. I hear you got punished again. FINALLY."

Hiccup almost yells out in frustration. This is the _last_ thing he needs. “Get lost, Snotlout!”

But since when has his cousin ever gotten lost? Snotlout grabs Hiccup and turns him face-down so his cheek is pressed into the mud, then drops to his knees to straddle him, sitting on his back. Hiccup sprawls out as Snotlout’s weight settles over his midsection, pinning him to the ground. Hiccup can feel the freezing mud melting and pushing into his ear. The cold ground is actually quite soothing on his burning wrists-- until Snotlout leans forward and grabs them, pinning his arms to the dirt on either side of his head. His  fingers dig into the blazing skin. Hiccup writhes underneath Snotlout, pain shooting through his arms. It’s scary being pinned face-down, worse than being on his back. He bucks, but it’s no use. "Get _off_ me!"

"You think you're so special,” sneers Snotlout, whispering into Hiccup’s ear. Hiccup can’t see his face, but he could draw his cousin’s disgusted expression from memory. "You know what I wish? I wish they would quit giving you special treatment and give you a _man’s_ punishment!"

"Oh, that's original," Hiccup drawls. "Did your dad say that?"

Snotlout's hands dig into Hiccup's sore wrists so hard Hiccup chokes back a cry. "Don't you dare say anything about my dad, you little pipsqueak!" he screams, breath hot against Hiccup’s cheek, spit spraying onto Hiccup’s ear.

Hiccup grits his teeth against the pain. He’ll die before he asks Snotlout to let go. The heavy boy is squashing Hiccup’s stomach, making it hard to breathe. The freezing mud is soaking through to his skin, chilling him and making him shiver. Hiccup is completely helpless, completely restrained, completely defeated. He won’t give Snotlout the satisfaction of fighting back. He looks away and lets himself go limp.

“Aw, little Hiccup is giving up! Chicken. What, don’t wanna fight me?” Snotlout shakes him, shifting his grip on Hiccup’s wrists again, reigniting the pain and making Hiccup gasp. “You feel so bad ‘cause you got a smack on the wrist, I’d like to see you be a real Viking, take a Viking’s punishment. If your dad was a _real_ chief he’d--”

“He’d _what,_ young Snotlout?”

Gobber’s shadow falls over the pair of them like Vidar descended from the heavens, and Hiccup thinks he really might cry with relief. Snotlout scrambles up: Hiccup flips over onto his back as the big blacksmith stares impassively down at his bully. “You take issue with the chief, son? Got some criticisms you want to take up with Stoick?”

“No, no – I was just going…” And Snotlout scurries off, so fast Hiccup can barely track him.

  1. **Age 12**



Gobber bends and scoops Hiccup up by the armpits, easily slipping his hook around Hiccup’s right arm while his big hand lifts him up by his left. He doesn’t grip Hiccup’s wrists to lift him, and for this Hiccup is grateful. They’re only a few paces from the forge, but Hiccup is still embarrassed when Gobber swings him up into his arms, cradling him against his chest like a baby. “Gobber!” Hiccup protests, squirming. “I’m too…”

“Too old? I carried you this way as an infant and I’ll keep carrying you like this until you’re strong enough to stop me. Now shut it and let old Gobber take care of you.” His voice drops as he hitches Hiccup higher. “Stubborn, boarheaded Viking, why I even bother with this batty family of yours I have no idea, I must be soft in the head...”

Gobber keeps muttering as he shoulders the door open and goes into the back room of the forge, sitting Hiccup down on the little pallet-bed. “Stay here,” he says firmly, but kindly. He fumbles around, lighting a candle - there aren’t any windows in the tiny space, so it’s almost pitch-dark even in the daytime. Then he scoops something from the corner of the room, sits on the edge of the bed, and lifts Hiccup bodily into his lap, setting him down on one knee. Hiccup tries to squirm away, but doesn’t have much success pushing back against a pair of arms each as big around as him. “You’re as bad as yer father. Here…”

Gobber presses a soft, cool scrap of cloth against his throbbing left wrist, and it feels so good that Hiccup gasps and stops struggling. Gently, Gobber lifts his other wrist to the damp cloth, letting Hiccup use it to soothe the burning there. As Hiccup uses the makeshift compress, sighing with relief, he feels Gobber’s hook pull him close into his soft stomach, his flesh-and-blood hand coming up to cup the side of Hiccup’s head, pressing it tight against Gobber’s body. The _ba-dump_ of Gobber’s heartbeat pumps beneath Hiccup’s head, soothing; he smells comfortingly of charcoal and iron. “Yer father hates doing this. You know that, don’t you?”

“Then why does he keep doing it?” Hiccup mutters rebelliously. Gobber’s hand is soothing as it lies against his temple, making his voice echo oddly in his ears.

“You know the answer to that, lad,” Gobber says mildly. “Here.” He hands Hiccup a fresh cloth to replace the one in his hands, now lukewarm from the heat in his aching wrists. The strap doesn’t bruise, but it hurts down to the bone. It’s a sick pain, like the blood running in his veins has been beaten. Like maybe one day a vein will burst.

The coolness helps. Hiccup chokes back a sob.

“Ah, Hiccup.” Gobber holds Hiccup and rocks him. “There, there. Go on, let it out.”

Hiccup holds his breath, desperate to hold back his tears. But Gobber’s still rocking him, still saying soothing nonsense, and Hiccup chokes. Then Gobber hands him a fresh cloth for his aching wrists and pulls him closer, and Hiccup starts sobbing, weeping unabashedly into the blacksmith’s soot-stained shirt. “There, there, lad. It’s all right, it’s all right.” Gobber keeps rocking him, handing him another scrap of fabric to wipe his face. He keeps rocking, rubbing his shoulders and holding him tight.

They stay like that for a while, Gobber steadily swapping out the cool cloths for Hiccup’s wrists and the dry ones for his face. _Always keep clean cloths on hand,_ Gobber has drummed into Hiccup since forever. _In an emergency, they're the most useful thing to have around. Well, that and clean undies._

The candle has burned down to about half its size by the time Hiccup has mostly cried himself out. “I’m sorry…” he manages to say.

“Sorry?!” Gobber pulls slightly away, letting Hiccup see his face. “What for?”

Hiccup wipes his eyes. His wrists throb. “Not being… Vikingly…”

Gobber hands him a fresh cool cloth, pressing it to his wrist. “Put the other one there too.” He lets out a friendly chuckle. “Vikingly, indeed. You should have seen your father bawling when he was your age. Sounded like a yak getting slaughtered.”

Hiccup blinks. “Dad… cried?” It doesn’t seem possible. “My _dad,_ my dad?”

“No, my old Aunt Gerta. Of course, yer dad, who else? His dad was big on punishment. I’d wait for him outside his hut and take him somewhere private to cry his eyes out.” Gobber strokes Hiccup’s hair. “He’d sit much as you’re sitting now—only, you know, next to me, not in my lap, since we were the same age and all.” He smiles down at Hiccup, rocking him. “You get to sit here, ‘cause you’re small.”

“I’m not sma…” A yawn takes Hiccup. Suddenly, he can barely keep his eyes open. “I’m a big hunk of raw Vikingness…” He yawns again.

“Sure you are.” Hiccup can hear the smile in Gobber’s voice as he lowers him to the quilt-draped pallet-bed. “Sure you are. Powerful enough to slay Vikings and tame dragons,” he jokes. “Or is that the other way around?”

“Other way around!” Hiccup lets out a little giggle. He can’t help it; Gobber is silly. And funny. And nice.

Gobber pulls the coverlet over Hiccup, tucking it in snugly. He sits on the side of the bed, stroking Hiccup’s hair. “Keep that cloth to your wrists, now. Should be good as new when you wake up.”

Hiccup snuggles into the pillow. “I’m not sleepy. I need to get back to work.”

“Sure you do.” Gobber’s hand on his hair feels nice, stroking rhythmically. The cool cloth on his wrists is blessed relief. “There’s lots to be done, too. First we’ve Bucket’s barrels that need repairing, and a new horseshoe for Gripflange, and after that we’ve all the cartwheels to check for hardware – hubs, nails and we’d better do a check on the outer frames as well just to be sure. The last rain brought on quite a bit of rust, and…”

Hiccup drifts off, lulled by the list of familiar tasks and the soft drone of Gobber’s voice.

* * *

 

  1. **Age 14**



“What were you thinking, Stoick?” Gobber grates. “I just want to know what in Hel’s realm was going through your mind when you decided to beat your own son.”

“I didn’t beat him.” Stoick crosses his arms, hunching away from Gobber in his chair. Their voices echo through the silent Great Hall, sitting alone in the vast chamber with only a candle by their place at the long wooden table. Gobber is on his third mug of mead; Stoick has lost count.

“Oh, then perhaps I was at a different council meeting? Hallucinating maybe?” Stoick remains silent, folding his arms tighter. “That boy adores you, Stoick. You’re the only one he’s got on his side, other than me. You’re his only family. He needs to know he can turn to you when he makes a mistake without feeling afraid.”

Stoick pounds a fist on the table. “My boy is not afraid of me!”

“Not yet he isn’t.” Gobber leans forward, seeking his old friend’s eyes. “Another few more times, and he will be. Do you want him to fear you? Like you feared yer own dad?”

“I did not fear…” But Gobber’s eyes meet Stoick’s, and the chief’s eyes drop. “I… All right, I did. I feared him. But this, this was different. I…” Stoick clenches his fists and glares down at the tabletop. “I was just—just teaching him a lesson,” he mumbles.

“A lesson, eh. You think Val would have approved?”

Stoick’s head whips round to Gobber with a piercing glare. If it was anyone but Gobber saying this, they would be picking their teeth up off the floor. Since it’s Gobber, Stoick deflates. “She’d have had my guts for garters. Probably gone off into the woods with the boy and never spoken to me again.”

“Stop defending the indefensible then.”

“Gobber…” Stoick sighs. “There was no way I could contradict the council, not as Chief of Berk. Not when the boy’s mistakes affect our food supply.”

Gobber thinks for a long moment, and sighs. “All right. I’ll accept that. Still doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“I don’t like it either. I hate it.” Stoick shakes his head. “You think he’ll forgive me?”

“The lad is forgiving. I’m sure he knows you didn’t have a choice. Hiccup’s observant.” Gobber takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I’m just bothered by the council’s attitude. Like the child needs any more reminding that the village thinks he’s useless…”

Stoick hunches his shoulders. “You’ve said yourself he can’t be trusted to keep himself safe!”

“Himself, yes… but he hasn’t a malicious bone in his body.”

“But he keeps destroying half the village!”

Gobber nods sagely. “He’s accident-prone, it’s true...”

“ _Accident-prone?”_ Stoick repeats. “He’s a walking source of destruction. He’s a menace!”

“Now, now, Stoick. The most accident-prone Viking in history was Bork the Bold, after all.”

Stoick scoffs. “My son is hardly going to write the Book of Dragons.”

Gobber was just about to go on, but Stoick’s statement rubs him the wrong way. “Why shouldn’t he? You should see the designs he makes. Brilliant, some of them are. I still use the bellows he designed and made. Works a treat, I can use it one-handed, and—”

“He won’t do things the Viking way! He has to learn to be one of us, or it’ll get him killed!”

Stoick’s old friend eyes him shrewdly. “And you thought a dose of old-style Viking discipline might do him good? Taking a leaf out of Spitelout’s book, were you?”

“Gods, no.” Stoick shudders. But then he falls silent. “Was I?”

Gobber sits back, relieved, raising his tankard prosthetic for a long swallow. “No, you weren’t,” he says with satisfaction.

“How do you know?” Stoick asks, low and worried.

“’Cause you asked.” Gobber turns his head to Stoick, reclining almost all the way back in his chair. “If you were, you wouldn’t have asked.”

Stoick rests his elbows on the long table, head bowed. “I’d best be getting home.”

“Hiccup’s spending the night in the forge, by the by.”

Stoick stiffens. “Is he…” His chest clenches, all the mead he’s drunk suddenly turning to water in his veins. Not caring how weak he seems, he meets his old friend’s eyes. “How is he, Gobber?”

The lines are deep in Gobber’s face. “He’ll be all right. Eventually.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m taking him off work for a week.”

“How bad?” Stoick manages to rasp.

“The hole in the strap raised blood-blisters. Skinny as he is, that did damage. Boy’s in so much pain he can barely move his arms. I iced and wrapped them and told him to take it easy. I’ll sit by him tonight and take him to Gothi tomorrow. She’ll probably have something to help.”

Stoick winces. Gobber’s eyes meet Stoick’s, hard, daring him to say something. When Stoick doesn’t, Gobber continues. “He won’t be coming home till he’s healed. Needs taking care of and you’re too busy with the village. It’ll give you two a chance to cool off, as well.”

Stoick almost, almost says, ‘Give him a chance to forgive me, you mean?’ He opens his mouth to say it. Then he slumps. “All right.”

Gobber drains his tankard and rises to go. Before he leaves, he lays his hand on Stoick’s shoulder. His voice is mild, but it has a core of steel. “I’d rather not see a repeat of that, if it’s all the same to you.”

Stoick breathes deeply. “That makes two of us.”

* * *

 

  1. **Age 15**



Hiccup's been summoned to the Great Hall. _Again._ And he knows what's going to happen to him there. He doesn’t remember ever being called in there for good news.

The door in front of him is slightly ajar, the perennially stuck lock keeping it from closing all the way. He's told his dad a hundred times to let him just make a new mechanism already - metalwork has come a long way since that thing was made - but, Vikings, stubbornness issues. It doesn't help, he thinks, tracing a hand over the heat-warped mechanism, that they just keep hammering the same lock back into place every time the door's destroyed in a dragon raid.

Hiccup takes a deep breath. He's already dragged his feet as much as he can. Just before he pushes against the door, he sighs heavily, allowing himself a moment to lament at how much this _sucks._

Inside the Hall it’s gloomy. His footsteps echo through the dark atmosphere that hangs in the air. He misses the warm, yellow glow of the night torches, the only illumination a shaft of grey that cuts through the skylight. The council looms over him, backlit by the natural light that deepens every crease in their faces. Hiccup gives each member a glance and settles his gaze on his father, who is standing a bit further out than the rest of his council. Hiccup hates this. He hates the weight that has settled onto his dad's shoulders, the way that it pulls on his face, aging him years. He hates that he’s still scared of the pain, the chill he can't shake at being in this spot _again_. And he hates how his dad doesn't look like his dad anymore. It hurts. Every. Time.

He’s in front of the council members already, their frowns dark and shadowed. Hiccup suppresses a shiver: they always look so menacing, standing in a circle at their places round the table. His father is grim-faced as he fronts them. He didn’t use to meet Hiccup’s eyes during these sessions, thankfully few and far between… but now he does, and his gaze holds not disappointment but _resignation._ Like he’s stopped expecting anything better. Hiccup stops cold, unable to stop the tendril of fear from curling around his chest, tightening and cutting off his air like the barrel-staves he makes when the seasons change.

 _It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,_ he thinks to himself. _Be over soon. It’s okay._ Soon he’ll be out of here. He hasn’t been to the cove yet. Toothless will be hungry. They’ve been working on dives, they can fall almost to the sea now and each time they come together more smoothly than the last. Hiccup will go to Toothless and…

“Hiccup,” says his dad, “hold out your hands.” No, not his dad—the chief. Hiccup can’t think of the Stoick of these moments as his dad and feel the same about him, so he reminds himself to call him only “the chief.” This is probably about…

“…the sheep during the last dragon raid.”

Hiccup sighs. “Yeah, okay.” At least he’s not being punished for something he didn’t do. It _was_ his fault, although he didn’t mean any harm. His eyes cling shut a little longer on his next blink, and he sees the cove, and the lake, and blue sky and bright green eyes.

“You’ll get nine.”

“Nine?!” Spitelout steps forward, knocking over his empty chair with an echoing clatter. “For depriving the village of its most important food source? Have ye gone soft, Stoick!” He doesn’t quite succeed in making it sound like a question.

Hiccup glares at Spitelout. Long, long ago, he respected him. But Hiccup’s not a baby anymore. He’s heard sounds coming from the Jorgenson household that have turned his limbs to lead, and always had to suffer a beating or some sort of attack from a raging Snotlout after, to the point where Hiccup now hides out in his house or the back room of the forge when he hears blows and screaming. Hiccup knows what manner of man his uncle is, and he respects him as is his due as kinsman and village elder—and not a hair more.

“I believe it’s for the chief to decide,” Stoick says.

“Of course,” Spitelout says smoothly. “No matter if we’ll go hungry because of him, now is it.”

Hiccup’s side still aches from the last time Snotlout stomped him. His vision washes red. His hands fist at his sides and he takes a step forward. “I bet you’d like to beat me into the ground like you—”

“HICCUP!”

Stoick’s bull-roar stops Hiccup in his tracks. Hiccup has never heard him this outraged, an odd, rough edge to his voice. “Silence! Hold out your hands!”

Hiccup knows better than to cross his dad - no, his chief - in this mood. And he _was_ out of line – he was just so mad! He inhales deeply. Suddenly, all he wants is Toothless. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone but his best friend, doesn’t want to hear anyone’s voice but his. He doesn’t want to be anywhere but with him.

He holds out his hands, palms up.

The first stroke is hard, and he gasps. It’s been a while; he’s probably out of practice. His breathing stutters. He fights to even it out. The strap lands again. Pain drives through his wrists, sharp and vicious. Gods, was his dad holding back all these years? Hiccup’s barely holding back from making a sound and he’s only two strokes in.

The third whack sends lancinating pains through his arms into his whole body. Hiccup doubles over, grunting to keep himself under control. His dad’s definitely hitting harder. What…? He glances up at Stoick. In his eyes Hiccup sees… something. Sternness, yes, that’s always been there in these miserable situations, and unhappiness, yes… but there’s more of the bitter skimped-on-the-meat-in-his-sandwich look than Hiccup recalls. Before, Hiccup remembers the council pressuring his father to punish him and Stoick fighting back and— _Gods—_ the fourth hit lands and he’s doubling over already, grunting and trying not to outright groan. The fragile little pulse in his wrist is an agonizing throb of panic. He can’t take more of this pain he _can’t—_

He straightens, out of habit by this time, gut freezing and clenching with fear. His hands shake as he holds them out. He almost wants to pull them away, but that’s not very Vikingly and—

 _Thwack._ It feels like his skin is being pierced with spikes from all directions, the pain in his pulse point driving into his heart. He writhes and rocks back and forth, gasping, trying to come to terms with the screaming in his veins. He never meets his dad’s—the chief’s—eyes during a punishment, but this time he can’t help trying for eye contact, desperate to tell him not to hit so hard, that he can’t take this pain.

His father’s face is impassive. The sight of his dad’s eyes so cold and forbidding sends a chill through Hiccup – but then the next blow lands.

“Gahh!” The sickening agony drags a cry from Hiccup, almost a scream. His knees buckle and he catches himself just in time, jackknifing forward for balance and ending up crouching awkwardly, almost on his knees but not quite. Despite his best efforts to control himself and act like a Viking, Hiccup can’t hold back a groan. He’s broken out in a sweat, his breathing uneven, the fearful pain tearing a grunt out of him with each gasping breath. He presses his wrists against his pant-legs, trying to choke back the sounds he’s making.

At the sound of Hiccup’s yell, Gobber whirls, for the first time since the council’s punishments started. “Chief! Ease up there!” he cries, voice ragged. His dad remains silent and Hiccup has a moment of blind panic as he realizes he has no idea how many he’s taken and how many he has left. Only some stubborn bullheaded stupid streak keeps him from asking, from begging for it to be over. His stomach is surging into his throat.

Gasping, Hiccup straightens up and somehow, somehow holds out his hands for more. Piercing fear numbs him, his elbows pressed into his sides. _Please please please please please—_

The strap lands. Hiccup cries out and doubles over. He doesn’t _think_ it was harder than the last, but the pain is sickening, like he’s been punched in the stomach. His blood is acid. He can see the skin on his wrists already browning and blistering. _How much more how much more?_ He knows he can’t take much more of this. He opens his mouth to humiliate himself, to ask how much more, to speak his father’s name.

And Stoick catches him just in time. “Two more,” he intones.

Hiccup looks up. He never intended to meet Gobber’s eyes, or anyone’s. But in that piercing blue gaze he finds comfort, looking up into his mentor’s face instead of down at the throbbing little pulse underneath his own darkening skin. Gobber looks absolutely agonized, and Hiccup feels bad for him. He swallows. “It’s okay,” he mouths to Gobber, even as the fear drives into him hard with the descending arc of the leather, even as the eighth whack does, finally, drive him to his knees.

Hiccup stays kneeling on the flagstone for a moment, gasping. He thinks he hears a sound, not only from Gobber, but from his dad as well. But then he scrambles to his feet. He’s a Viking. He holds his head high and pushes into the pain. His blood is ice, but he extends his wrists.

“Last one,” Stoick says, and Hiccup’s head jerks up at the hitch in his father’s voice. For a moment, he could swear his eyes are wet. But his eyes hold, not fellow-feeling, but sorrow. As though a final chance has been missed, only Hiccup didn’t know about it until it was too late.

Then the stroke lands and he’s writhing again, doubled over, wrists crossed over his chest in an X. He manages not to fall to his knees again. Gobber is saying something, but all Hiccup can think is _It’s over it’s over it’s over._ Hiccup turns, not wanting to meet their eyes, not wanting to see anyone. All he can think of is Toothless.

He bolts to the door and is free.

* * *

Although all he wants right now is to get as far away from the Great Hall as possible, Hiccup jogs around to the back, heading for the kitchen area in the rear of the building. All he needs is a basket of fish. That’s all he needs, all he can think about. That and the pain. He is _this_ close to getting on Toothless’ back and never showing his face in this miserable village again. He is _this_ close to—

“Hey, Useless.”

“AGH!!!! Not _now_ , Snotl—” But since _when_ has he caught a break? He’s tackled to the ground, Snotlout landing on his chest. Angry and in pain, Hiccup swings. He gets lucky and his fist connects with Snotlout’s jaw.

“Ow! What the fuck?”

Hiccup somersaults and regains his feet. For the first time in his life, he’s managed to break Snotlout’s hold, dragging himself gracelessly out from under his heavier cousin. Even more surprisingly, Hiccup finds himself not running. He balances on the balls of his feet in a half-crouch, kind of like he balances on Toothless’ stirrups, arms extended, elbows loosely bent, waiting.

Snotlout stares at him, stunned. Hiccup’s kind of stunned too, to be honest: it’s the first time he hasn’t run or submitted. But then his cousin’s eyes drop to Hiccup’s darkening wrists, and he sneers. “Guess you got it for what you did, huh?” Snotlout gloats. “Just wait ‘til dragon training starts. They’ll just eat you and save us the trouble of having to deal with you anymore.”

Something clicks in Hiccup. The dragons. Toothless. He doesn’t need this. “You know, you’re right. It’s not worth it.” He turns and starts to walk away. “I’m done.”

Pounding footsteps approach his back, running. Hiccup listens, alert, and drops into a crouch just as Snotlout launches himself at him in a tackle. The bigger, heavier boy misses completely, sailing over Hiccup on his own momentum, pinwheeling and crashing into someone’s hut.

Looking back, Hiccup knows his mistake was not running the minute he sent his cousin sprawling. Falling just makes Snotlout angry - well, angri _er -_ and he puts on an extra burst of speed, not falling for Hiccup’s trick a second time. He lands on Hiccup’s back, powering him down and bringing Hiccup to the ground with a _whump_ that knocks all the air out of him. “Think you’re a fighter, huh? Think you’re better than me?” Snotlout grunts, flipping Hiccup over and grabbing his blistered wrists roughly. Hiccup almost yells out, but decides he won’t give his bully the satisfaction.

Hiccup tries to use the fact that he’s lying on his back to buck Snotlout off, but Snotlout’s hands just tighten on Hiccup’s wrists, forcing tears of pain from Hiccup’s eyes whenever he tried to buck Snotlout off. _In close combat,_ Hiccup once overheard his dad counseling a warrior, _weight wins every time._ It’s sure winning this time: Snotlout is taking out all outrage on Hiccup for flipping him. He shifts his grip so he’s holding both Hiccup’s wrists in one hand and starts to lay into him with punch after punch. Hiccup yells and struggles, but Snotlout doesn’t stop until he’s beaten Hiccup black and blue.

It takes Hiccup a while to realize the pummelling has stopped. “Guess we know which of us is the better warrior, the Jorgenson or the Haddock,” Hiccup hears as the weight on his chest lifts. He gasps again as his wrists burn again with the pain of being let go. He flops down, gasping, half-turning his head enough to see the hated form of his cousin saunter away, pumping a fist into the air, chanting that _damned_ battle-cry of his.

He lies there for what feels like hours, catching his breath. The sun hasn’t moved much, though, so he knows it really hasn’t been that long. Slowly, stiffly, he rolls onto his side and starts the task of getting up. He has things to do. What in the world possessed him to think he could get the better of Snotlout? He’s barely even able to stagger to his feet, and getting to the cove is going to be a nightmare. _That_ great idea backfired pretty spectacularly.

* * *

Hiccup drags his heavy burden through the forest, cursing that he couldn’t find a  basket with a shoulder-strap to spare his wrists. Putting the fish in the basket in the first place hurt his arms, but now, lugging the damned thing to the cove ignites throbbing pains in every other part of him. If it was just him, he’d crawl back home – or to the forge – and fall into bed. But Toothless will be hungry, and he can’t leave the downed dragon alone to starve, not when he’s depending on Hiccup. Besides… Hiccup really wants to see Toothless. Even if he ends up just giving Hiccup a dragon lecture for being late and smacking him upside the head.

 _Guess I need a friend,_ Hiccup thinks ruefully. He’s spent years learning how to take care of himself: he should be good at it by now. But instead… now, just knowing the Night Fury is there, in the cove – he pushes down the guilt, if he hadn’t hurt Toothless he’d be free as the air, far away from here – knowing he’ll be there waiting, glad to see him even if it’s only for the fish, warms Hiccup’s heart. He remembers sitting with Toothless, sharing meals, hanging out on long sun-dappled afternoons, talking to him and hearing the grunts that come at such precise times that Hiccup’s now convinced the dragon understands Norse. The memories of the good times give him the strength to push on.

At some point, he realizes it’s going to be dark by the time he gets there, but he goes on struggling through the underbrush, groaning occasionally when his aches and pains get too much for him. He’s determined to see his friend, as though the sight of him will make everything better, even if Toothless is mad at him, even if he chews him out. Hiccup vows to take any bawling-out Toothless wants to give him, just to see his big green eyes again, just to spend some time in his best friend’s company. Some friend Hiccup is, keeping him hungry all day. “Yeah, I’m late for you, buddy,” he mutters, dragging his feet onwards, step by painful step. “I know. I know…”

By the time he gets to the cove, he’s shaking all over. His wrists are blazing. His face and ribs are throbbing, and there’s this one spot on his cheekbone that Snotlout’s knuckles split and just won’t stop bleeding. His tunic is soaked now, probably ruined as well. Perfect. And Toothless is going to give him so much grief for being late…

Climbing down to the entrance without falling takes what seems like an eternity. The shield blocking the entrance mocks his aching body, the act of crouching to get past it an ordeal. He pushes the basket under the shield, letting it slide down the muddy path and down into the cove through the gap in the rock. It falls on its side, dumping the fish out into the one patch of dirt amid the grass. And isn’t that just the perfect end to the perfect day.

Hiccup collapses onto his back behind the shield. Climbing down the last few feet into the cove is beyond him. “Come and get it!” he calls up to the twilit sky. The dragon can just come up to the entrance for dinner. Hiccup is _done._

There’s a snuffle behind the shield, a croon. Hiccup ignores it. He can’t move a muscle. He’ll probably just spend the night out here. Walking back is just too much.

More dragon sounds come from behind the shield. They sound distressed. Is Toothless sick? Hiccup’s ashamed of thinking _Please no,_ not because he cares for the dragon but because he aches all over and his wrists are sick fire and he really, really can’t face running all the way up to Gothi’s and stealing medicine if Toothless needs anything. Not that anyone’s ever managed to steal from Gothi, the thought floats through his mind as he slumps further into the dirt. She has eyes in the back of her head, and...

Then there’s a dragon cry of anguish from behind the shield, and a jolt of alarm blows away the irritation like cobwebs in a gale. A sudden fear for his best friend has Hiccup struggling to his feet. Toothless isn’t _really_ hurting, is he? The thought of him in any kind of pain makes Hiccup’s heart twist in his chest and his pulse thud in alarm. “Toothless?” With a grunt, Hiccup slides under the shield, through the opening and into the cove, bracing for a hard landing.

There is no landing. He’s swept up in soft wings and balanced delicately on his feet, the Night Fury nuzzling him, licking and crooning. “Wha…” Hiccup looks up at Toothless as best he can. The dragon is sniffing him up and down frantically, letting out high-pitched cries all the while. The loudest cries – the ones, Hiccup realizes, that made him think Toothless was in pain – come when Toothless is sniffing Hiccup’s bloodied cheek. Hiccup feels a faint shock at the realization that Toothless is checking him over. “It’s okay,” he says, oddly touched that the dragon cares he’s hurt. “It’s okay, Toothless…”

Toothless throws his head back and roars in what Hiccup recognizes as outrage. Hiccup can almost make out his _No, it’s not okay._ Toothless’ soft tongue darts out and licks the broken skin of Hiccup’s face over and over. “It’s really okay,” Hiccup repeats, unconvinced and unconvincing. Toothless licks it again – and Hiccup notices that the pain is receding. “You’re kidding me,” he huffs out. “Seriously? On top of everything we know about you that’s wrong, you can kiss owies better?”

Toothless blinks, looking confused at Hiccup’s words, but he keeps up the licking, undeterred. Hiccup falls silent, too exhausted to keep up the smart remarks for long. Snotlout got him good, and there’s nowhere on him that isn’t hurting. The pain in his wrists makes him want to throw up. Hiccup feels himself going limp in Toothless’ gentle hold.

He expects to be lowered to the grass now he’s unable to move at all, but if anything, he’s held more securely. A foreleg caresses his bruised back and a hind leg lifts his feet off the ground. Hiccup is completely cocooned now in Toothless’ wings, forepaws acting like hands to brush the hair off his face and gently lift his tunic, the dragon’s tongue softly pressing his bruised ribs, easing the throbbing. “Toothless,” he whispers, “you don’t have to…”

For answer, he’s lifted onto the dragon’s stomach as Toothless rolls onto his back. He finds himself lying on the soft, velvety chest, rising and falling like a bellows beneath him with each breath. His back is pressed against the steady thumping of the dragon’s great heart. A deep, rumbling purr starts up, calming him. “Oh, Toothless…” Hiccup breathes, soothed so profoundly he starts to feel sleep pulling him down.

Dragon croons fill his senses. He’s flown with Toothless many times before, worked on his flying for weeks now. But this is the first time he’s ever heard the Night Fury make that soft a sound. It’s fragile, mournful. Hurting. It sounds like the dragon is wounded. “You okay, bud? You don’t sound… so good…” Hiccup manages to whisper, fighting to keep his eyes open in case Toothless needs his help.

The dragon shakes his head. He licks at Hiccup’s bruised face, keening. It jolts and humbles Hiccup to realize his best friend is crying in sorrow for _him._

“Hey now, don’t. I’m okay…” Hiccup says reassuringly, reaching an arm up to pet the Night Fury’s head. His blistered wrist scrapes against a rough patch of scale on the side of Toothless’ face, and he gasps, drawing his arms in to his chest with a groan.

Toothless’ cry mirrors Hiccup’s. He half-rises into a sitting position, cradling Hiccup to his chest like a human would, arms and wings holding him against his heart. With a foreleg and tongue, he pulls Hiccup’s arms out of their folded position, gentling Hiccup’s sleeves up to survey the damage.

At the sight of the blisters and the dark-brown tint on the skin of his wrists, Toothless gasps. Hiccup has never heard a dragon gasp before. Huge green eyes meet Hiccup’s. _Who did this? Who caused this?_ Hiccup can tell his friend is asking.

“Uh, well…” How is Hiccup to explain human customs? But he doesn’t have to. Without waiting for an answer, Toothless lowers his nose to Hiccup’s arms, then his body. He sniffs deeply, nostrils flaring and narrowing. Finally, he nods once as if committing something to memory. Hiccup chills at the decisiveness of that nod. “Hey, it’s not…”

Toothless whuffs, _Shut up._ He bends forward, nipping at Hiccup’s tunic. Getting a grip on it with his teeth, he lifts it off completely. Hiccup raises his arms, allowing his friend to undress him. It’s not cold with the Night Fury’s wings all about him. Then Toothless bends in concentration, licking the sore spots all over Hiccup’s torso, crooning over his bruises and soothing his aches and pains.

As Hiccup’s pain recedes, his throat thickens, a lump forming and making it difficult to swallow. Nobody but Gobber has held him like this ever since he can remember. Not since his mother died. And even Gobber has never cradled and crooned over him with such abandon. Tears prick at his eyes. Vikings don’t cry, but maybe just this once, he can allow himself.

Quietly, Hiccup allows a few tears to escape. Here, held and loved in the soft haven of Toothless’ embrace, he’s not Hiccup the Useless, he’s not the village screw-up, he’s not the guy Snotlout hates so much, he’s not the last picked, he’s not the one nobody wants to be friends with. Here, he’s valued. He’s precious, at least to someone. He’s someone who can be liked on his own merits… Well… Gobber’s always good to him, Hiccup thinks guiltily, but this… It’s a feeling like he’s deserving of a friend. It’s like having someone his own age who thinks he’s worth something.

And from the way Toothless is crooning to him, to the dragon, he’s worth everything.

Making a show of retracting his teeth with an audible _snick,_ Toothless opens his mouth slightly. Giant green eyes meet Hiccup’s, asking permission. Hiccup doesn’t even know what Toothless wants, but he’s lost in those eyes. Even if Toothless swallowed him whole in the next moment, Hiccup could die happy. He can refuse Toothless nothing. “Go on, bud,” he nods.

Toothless holds his jaw open, teeth still retracted. With gestures and careful lip-pulls, he gets both of Hiccup’s sore wrists pillowed on his spongy tongue. Carefully, he bows his head to draw Hiccup’s forearms fully into his mouth. He closes it and purrs around them, holding them inside, laving the places where it hurts.

Hiccup cries out in surprise as the pain eases, then fades completely. In its place is warmth, and a relief so overwhelming it pulls a sob from him. The sob is followed by another, then another, as though his heart knows it’s safe to give vent to his feelings here in the cradle of his best friend’s arms. “I’m sorry, Toothless…” he murmurs, pressing his cheek to the dragon’s scaled face. Toothless makes a sound of sympathy and folds his forelegs to pull Hiccup that extra fraction closer to his chest, where Hiccup can feel the soothing beat of his heart. It’s a little awkward with Hiccup’s forearms still in Toothless’ mouth, but he snuggles in and Toothless tilts his head, letting Hiccup rest his own head more comfortably against the shoulder where foreleg meets body. The dragon redoubles his purring. It’s so soothing, so loving that Hiccup is dizzy, but he doesn’t need to stay upright because gentle wings fold themselves around him, gentle forepaws supporting him. “Bud…” he whispers. A pawpad meets his face and a thin sound escapes his throat. “I…”

The pad presses against his cheek, and Toothless vocalizes, calming and soft. Hiccup nuzzles into the soothing, dry texture of Toothless’ pawpad. The sheer tenderness of it brings fresh tears to his eyes, but he squeezes them shut and lets his friend brush his tears away.

Toothless keeps purring. _Sleep. Sleep, little friend. I’ve got you._

And Hiccup does, with a wisp of a memory of a feminine voice singing to him.

* * *

When Hiccup wakes, his pain is all but gone and the dawn chorus is in full swing. His forearms are still in Toothless’ mouth – Odin, he must have slept like a log, not to move at all like that. As he looks into the dragon’s big face, his depthless green eyes blink open. Seeing Hiccup, they squinch into silly happy half-moons and Hiccup feels Toothless wiggle underneath him as the dragon pushes Hiccup’s hands out of his mouth to free his tongue for a good-morning lick. Hiccup giggles. “That doesn’t wash off, ya know,” he says, then realizes he doesn’t have his tunic on. “Okay, do your thing,” he chuckles, flinging his arms wide. He bursts into fresh giggles when Toothless licks his torso thoroughly like a cat bathing a kitten, flipping him over like he’s a rag doll and tonguing his bare back. He seems to be paying particular attention to the places that were hurting Hiccup last night. “Did those bruise, bud?”

Toothless croons. Hiccup can see him nod.

“Don’t worry about it. They don’t hurt anymore. Let me see what kind of marks it lef…”

Hiccup trails off, looking at his arms. His wrists are pristine, intact, with no sign of the strapping that left his skin so discolored last night. Even the blisters have subsided. “Wow. What the village would say if they saw this,” he whispers.

Toothless burbles proudly, and Hiccup flings his arms around his neck. It’s so liberating to be spending the night here. He should feel guilty for not wanting the company of his own kind, and maybe he feels a little bad for making his dad and Gobber worry – but then he pulls back so he can look into Toothless’ green eyes, and tries not to feel _too_ strongly that he could spend the rest of his life here and never want anything more. “I love you, Toothless,” he blurts.

It’s the first time he’s ever said it.

Green eyes widen, and Toothless tilts his head and makes a sound Hiccup’s never heard from the dragon before. It may be the first time Toothless has said it, too.

* * *

 

**5a. Age 15**

Hiccup has barely finished venting to Astrid about Bork Week and Toothless’ lack of fellow Night Furies to fly with when Astrid drops the bombshell. “Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Your father and Gobber are looking for you. They want to see you in the Great Hall. They looked serious.”

“Ah.” Hiccup’s heart thuds into his stomach. “Great.” He stares into the distance, numb, as Astrid flies off blithely on her Nadder. His chest is tight. Coldness rises inside him, pressing against the back of his throat. “Happy Bork Week to me,” he says flatly, looking down at the grass. There’s a pressure behind his eyes, his forehead throbbing. He doesn’t know if he’s scared, or just sad. Toothless quits rolling around on the grass and comes up, giving him a concerned nudge. “It’s okay, Toothless,” Hiccup reassures, patting his friend’s scales blindly.

It’s the first time he’s flown to the Great Hall with this empty feeling in his chest. He doesn’t know what kind of stupid optimism made him think that maybe last time was, you know, the _last_ time. After all, he’s almost sixteen now – old enough to be exiled instead of whipped. Not that either is fun. But it’s not just that. It’s that Hiccup, maybe naively, really thought the days f being the village screw-up were over. Those days of not being good enough. What does he have to do to prove himself? Isn’t all of this – making dragons their allies, the battle, all of it – isn’t it enough? What more does he have to do?

By the time he’s walked through the high-ceilinged gloom of the empty hall, he feels about seven years old and just as small. But – regardless of anyone’s opinion of him – Hiccup is a Viking. And he’s going to put a brave face on it. “Okay, this is weird,” he says, keeping his voice as upbeat as he can. His heart still pushes up into his throat as he sees the council members turn to face him.

“Hiccup!” Stoick intones. “Come forward. And hold out your hands.”

Hiccup meets his dad’s eyes for a second, then slumps, resigned, and obeys. But on impulse, he slips his hands behind his back. “Dad? Gobber? Other scary-looking Vikings?” Crap, his smart mouth is running away from him as usual. “I’d just like to say, in my own defense: I _cannot_ control Snotlout or the twins twenty-four hours a day—”

But Gobber leans forward, cutting him off. “This isn’t about those jokers, Hiccup!” His voice drops to a whisper. “It’s something really good.” Hiccup might be forgiven for thinking twice about that statement, given the circumstances – but Gobber’s never lied to him before. No reason for him to start now.

Stoick clears his throat for attention. “Now then, Hiccup. As you know, Bork Week has begun. The first once since we made peace with the dragons. So it has been decided that from this moment forward, all things dragon-related, including Bork’s life’s work, shall be entrusted to you and the Academy.”

Hiccup’s mouth has already started to fall open at “Bork’s life’s work,” and by the end of his dad’s little speech, he’s just staring in amazement as Gobber lays a chest down on the table.

“This is where the Book of Dragons started,” his mentor says, opening it and producing a bundle of leather-bound notebooks and sheaves and scrolls of parchment. “Everything he ever wrote on the subject is in these notes!” Hiccup’s hands hover over the priceless artifact, afraid to touch it, as Gobber waxes lyrical. “Personal thoughts, feelings, fears! Even,” he says, decidedly less lyrical, “some delicious recipes.”

“Whoa,” Hiccup lets out an incredulous breath. “I… I don’t know what to say!” He looks up at his father, wanting to thank him for this, but also for so much more. For letting him take his place among the tribe, for trusting him, for… “Thank you, Dad,” he breathes, trying to find words. “This is…” he begins, but trails off.

“Son,” Stoick meets Hiccup's eye. Hiccup has never quite been able to understand his father, especially in moments like these. But, from the light that Hiccup can see, he knows that Stoick understands. “This is a big part of our history. You and the dragons are a big part of our future. It’s now up to you to take care of both.”

Hiccup is still staring, wide-eyed, as his dad manages to get Gobber to let the chest go – he’s still a little reluctant to relinquish the care of it after so many years – but he hands it to Hiccup, saying, “They’re yours now.”

The weight of the box nearly makes Hiccup fall flat on his face, but all he can think of is an exchange he had with his dad a few short months ago. 'I’m just the man for the job,’ he said back then. His dad replied, ‘You’re not a man yet,’ and Hiccup retorted, ‘And I won’t be if you won’t let me!’ Today, his dad is letting him.

Hiccup can’t find a way to show how grateful he is. But that’s okay, because his dad can see it in his face, and Stoick the Vast is not one for flowery speeches anyway. He hasn’t told Hiccup in so many words that he’s outgrown the corporal punishment of childhood or that Stoick considers him a fellow-Viking he can trust, but Hiccup can feel it in the weight of the piece of history in his hands.

He babbles some sort of thanks and stumbles out of the Great Hall before the weighty responsibility – literally – makes him fall flat on his face. But he falls flat on his face anyway, knocked over and immediately finding himself with a faceful of worried Night Fury. The chest falls to the ground and Hiccup curls up over it, protecting it. “What’s gotten into you, Toothless?!” he yells. Toothless isn’t wiggly and bouncy like he sometimes is—he’s serious, sniffing at Hiccup’s arms. Why would he…

_Oh._

“Oh, Toothless,” Hiccup murmurs. Of course the dragon would recognize the scents of this place and associate it with what he would see as injury. The quickest way to get this over with is to let Toothless examine him, so Hiccup settles the wooden box carefully on the ground and stands. Then he slides his sleeves up, revealing the unblemished skin of his forearms. “See? Perfectly fine.”

Toothless still licks his wrists to make absolutely sure. And then licks his hair. And then his face and arms and chest and – “Okay, bud, you missed me, I get it.” Hiccup throws his arms round Toothless and nuzzles him. Toothless has given him such love, so profound, so perfect: he doesn’t know what he’d do without him. _Please, please,_ Hiccup thinks as he picks up the heavy chest again and starts walking, Toothless at his side, _please never let me have to find out._

 


End file.
